Liam Shakespeare
by Lady Viola Delesseps
Summary: "Perchance she is not drowned..." A sequel - While William Shakespeare writes plays in London, the lone survivor of a shipwreck is picked up and is en route back to England. She is a lady, wealthy, beautiful, and with a secret. She has a player's talent, and a secret that she doesn't even tell Will...
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

She made her way down the busy streets, bustling with market traffic, passersby, and the general squalor that marked London in the fifteenth century. From the manner in which she drew her cloak about her slender form one would guess she were chilled to the bone – either that or on the run from the authorities, for she shrouded her face more deeply in the large hood and brushed back a stray wisp of waving golden hair, securely tucking it behind her ear, and then burying her hand once again beneath the shroud of the cloak.

From time to time she lifted her head – a head noble in form and feature, and altogether not fitting with the rough garments she wore or the vagabond-like nature in which she flitted back and fourth across the street outside the playhouse The Rose, trying to look like she was doing anything but loitering and looking for someone.

"Excuse me," muttered a man as he pushed roughly past and nearly knocked her off her feet with an enormous basket of reeking scum that had been dragged from the river Thames. One of the workmen following bobbed his head at the beautiful beggar, and the other just stared. She looked vaguely familiar – perhaps that golden hair just made him think of a the girl afflicted with young love in the tragedy he attended a few months ago. That boy that was the lead female role had acted like no other player he had ever seen. The queen herself congratulated him on his performance. It had not been a quickly forgotten day.

Deciding at last to bestow upon the young woman a crooked smile, he hurried on my, leaving the hooded figure to take a deep breath, and retreat into a recess formed by a stack of barrels in a nearby alleyway. Wincing as her backside made hurried contact with the hard, cold ground, she pushed herself farther into the shadows, tucking her skirt, coarse though it was, up around her legs, and keeping a sharp lookout for rats. Then she turned her gaze once more upon the entryway to the playhouse, from which an occasional figure would issue, only to return after a brief lapse of time. Excepting one, they were all men she knew.

For three hours she waited thus, smiling demurely at those who peered down at her in her hiding place, and hardly taking her eyes off the playhouse for a moment. At last, as the twilight gloom was gathering and all respectable people began to vacate the streets, leaving them in the possession of desperate-looking beggars, idle men of pleasure, and bedraggled women of the night, she stood stiffly, and began to stamp her feet and rub her pale hands together. Then she saw him.

The doors to The Rose opened outward and she saw them shift on their hinges and begin to give way before she caught a glimpse of the man himself. But she heard his voice, and her heart jumped, throbbing, into her throat as she began to pick her way across the nearly-empty street to intercept him.

"No, Sam, this is the last time. I don't want to hear another word about it." the man was saying, directing a decided finger inside. It bore traces of ink as did the rolled-up cuffs of his loose shirt, along with a barely-recognizable handkerchief that he clutched in his spare hand.

"But sir –"

The man hurled the blotter within the doorway, and with a threatening gesture, turned to stalk away, shouting over his shoulder.

"Lock up when you're finished."

He stopped in his tracks as a poorly-dressed figure stood before him. And then she pushed back her hood. He gave a violent start and took in his breath.

"Viola!" he breathed, and then looked hurriedly about them. Grabbing her by the wrist, he dragged her into the shadows of the playhouse, out of sight of the curious and troublesome, and locked his arms around her with desperate strength.

"Oh, Will..." she whispered, her face pressed against his shoulder, his embrace warm against the damp cool of the gathering dusk. At last he pulled back, speaking in breathless starts, his eyes searching hers.

"I heard you were dead... the wreck – "

"It was horrible." Pain was painted in her clear blue eyes as she was brought back to that fateful night. She closed them and said, "It was just like your dream – but I was saved."

He pressed her to him again, murmuring, his lips against her hair,

"God be praised. You have come back to me from beyond the grave."

Viola relaxed for a blissful moment in his arms, and then put her hands on his shoulders, pushing herself away and looking into his face.

"I am putting you in danger here."

"Nonsense," he whispered, drawing his face near hers. She turned away, her brow furrowed in conflicting emotions.

"You know that I am. I am thought to be dead."

"Then all the more reason that there should be no harm in us being seen together."

"Lady Wessex back from the colonies? No, Will." Viola looked at the ground, and at last managed,

"Lord Wessex was also saved. I have seen him."

"And has he seen you?" Will demanded, soaking in her words like the thirsty desert sand imbibes drops of rain.

She shook her head. "It must stay that way. I am dead."

"Thomas Kent is dead – Lady Wessex is dead... you must become someone new now they are both never again to come to me."

"What about Viola DeLesseps?" she said. "As far as I know, she yet lives." Chuckling, Will took her hand.

"Come, then. Where are you staying?"

"I have not arrangements as yet. I spent last night at Blackfriars – a charity case." She grimaced. "Besides, I only arrived back on English soil yesterday. I am forever grateful to my rescuers. I paid their silence."

"Then you have means?"

"Not anymore."

"You must come with me, then." He seized her hands, and looked ardently into her eyes. "It will be like old times." But Viola shook her head and said in a low voice,

"It can never be like old times, Will. I am still married while Wessex lives."

"You would betray him before your marriage, but not now? Most women come to their marriage bed pure, but before long have lovers –" He stopped short, seeing something strange written on her face.

"You must forget me. This is the time that Juliet lies like dead in the tomb. You must behave as if I am no more. But you mustn't behave as Romeo did – and do anything desperate. We may yet meet again. But for now, I am seeming dead."

"No," he shook his head. "I will not let you go again."

"You must. I will be putting you under undue suspicion." A single tear traced a path down her cheek, and he wiped it away with an ink-stained finger, saying,

"Suspicion? Of what?"

She shook her head and looked at the ground "Goodbye, Will."

"I will never love another as I love you," he declared, wrapping his arms about her waist and pulling her into his arms once more. She allowed herself to be pressed into him – he could feel every familiar curve of her body where it met his, and suddenly felt the unfamiliar rounded firmness of her warm center against him... He pulled away, a question in his eyes, and tried to place a hand against her, but with a small gasping sob, Viola whirled away, and was gone, running across the street, weeping as she was lost in the shadows of the vilest part of London.

Will opened his mouth to call out, and started after her, but just then the doors behind them opened, and Sam came out.

"Sir?" He said, confusion written on his face at finding Will still there. Will remained like a statue, staring fixedly down the alleyway, a strange disturbed expression written on his face.

"What is it?" Sam inquired. At last, Will turned, and passing a hand over his face, managed a brief smile.

"I'm sorry for shouting at you, Sam. Let''s go."

The two figures retreated into the darkness of the London night, but Will did not talk as they walked together. Viola... she was dead, yet alive. And he must play Romeo yet again and wait for her to rise from the tomb in light and life and come to him. He only hoped that it was not a vain hope. She had not said she still loved him. He reproached himself the instant he allowed himself to think such a thought. Of course she still loved him. At least there was hope that perhaps their paths may yet cross again on this side of the Thames. _On this side of the grave_, his melancholy mind echoed back.

TO BE CONTINED...


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

This chapter is a bit longer than the first, and I hope to have a more equal product on future chapters. A disclaimer – while I like the story and the characters of Shakespeare in Love, and have tried to write an intriguing sequel with realistic consequences, I do not approve of or endorse Viola and Will's behavior (in the film) as moral, proper, or wise. I have tried to write Viola's feelings on the subject, not necessarily mine. That being said, I hope you can enjoy the story for what it's worth, and let me know how you liked it!

Alsatia. It was the name of the place where lawlessness reigned in London. In the shadow of Blackfriars Monestary, it was considered a place of refuge, and had gradually evolved into anything but that. Those who grew up there counted themselves fortunate if they escaped into the better parts of London town, and those who found themselves there on business or, as was Viola's case, lack of means, were considered to be very down on their luck indeed to set foot into Alsatia.

Viola did not stop running until she was deep in the heart of the sector, her mind racing, thinking of how once before she had outrun Will when she had a secret she didn't wish to be known. Finally she stopped at a hairpin bend in the street that formed a ramshackle corner crowded with tipsy buildings and woebegone dwellings. She leaned her forehead against the mouldering wall before her, and suddenly felt sick at the stench of the place. Straightening, her breath coming in ragged gasps, Viola shut her eyes and stood still, waiting for her heart rate to slow, and reliving once again the night of the shipwreck...

She had been awakened roughly by a pounding on her cabin door, and sat up, narrowly missing the edge of the bunk above her in which her newly-wed husband slumbered. Relief flooded her when she saw the sleeping arrangements that they were forced to accommodate while en route to the colonies, though her husband grumbled and assured her,

"It will not be long, lady. Soon we will have our own luxurious bed in Virginia, and all the joys one could want."

It was not a comforting thought. Seasickness had plagued both of them for the first two weeks, but then the weather had grown fine, and Viola found consolation in pacing the decks in the fresh air and wind, much to her husband's annoyance, and to the sailor's amusement. She did not speak to them, but would smile periodically whenever they would catch her watching their work, and the one would mutter to the other,

"Now there's a piece of finery worth dressin' up for." When they looked again, she would be gone.

The pounding on the door continued, and Viola tried to rise to answer the summons, but was thrown back within her bunk by the violent pitching of the ship.

"My lord –" she began, but a sudden wave of dizziness and nausea came over her, and she stopped short, putting a hand to her throat, and attempting once more – "My lord – !" Just as she managed to get to her feet and begin to make her way across the rolling and shuddering floor, he was awakened, and leapt down from above, nearly landing on her in his haste, his nighshirt aflutter and his hair standing on end as he crashed across the cabin to the door and flung it open.

"What in the name of –"

"My lord Wessex, sir, captain's orders, you are to remain below until further orders."

"Why wake us to tell us that?" he demanded, irritably fingering his mustache and scowling at the ship's hand who was drenched with rain and shaking from his very bones.

"Captain's orders, sir," he stammered, and began to beat his retreat, stumbling up the companionway as the sea lashed the ship to and fro in her wild grip.

"My lord," Viola began. "What is happening?"

"Nothing," he said, and reached toward her as if to comfort her, but just then there was an enormous crash and they both fell against the far wall of the cabin. Shouts were heard on deck, and Viola pushed herself away from the wall, making her mazy way out the door and beneath the hatch which was now opened. Rain poured down into the hold from the deck's surface, and the rain was descending in sheets.

Gritting her teeth and ducking her head against the torrential downpour, Viola grasped the ladder and made her way up to the deck where a scene of havoc awaited her. Men ran to and fro, orders were being bellowed from the stern where the captain and several of the other sailors tried to make fast the loose cargo that was tumbling around on the deck. One of the masts had snapped like a twig and fallen in a tangle of lines across the deck, and Viola tripped and went sprawling just as a huge wave rose before the ship and crashed broadside across the deck. For a moment she was underwater, and then the vessel shook herself free, and rose again, water pouring from the scuppers, and leaving Viola in a sodden heap, coughing and gasping for breath.

She struggled to her feet again, and staggered forward, the deck falling from beneath her as she tried to make forward progress, only to rise again and slam into the bottoms of her feet, nearly throwing her backwards. At last she reached a man bent over the side, miserably retching. She took a handful of his shirt in her hand and pulled; he turned, and regarded her with shock.

"You are supposed to remain below, miss!" he exclaimed, water pouring from his face, the wind flapping his hair like a flag in a gale. Viola opened her mouth to protest, but there was a sudden cry;

"Look out!" Another spar came down, crashing through the railing beside them. Viola screamed and jumped back, but the beam fell squarely across the young sailor pinning him to the rain-washed deck. Before she could ascertain if he were alive or dead, the howling wind whipped through Viola's clothing and nearly knocked her off her feet; a giant wall of water rose before her eyes, and as she opened her mouth to scream yet again, suddenly found it full of seawater as it crashed over the foundering ship and carried her over the edge and into the ocean's foaming rage.

She was within the sea's grip for what seemed like hours on end, but what was in all likelihood mere minutes. The waves crashed above her, slapping billions of bubbles beneath the surface to swirl around her an obscure her vision. For a moment she was too shocked by the cold to even move, but then she began to fight the water as she struggled her way to the tempest-tossed surface. At last her head broke the water and she took a deep gasping breath, choking as a wave slapped into her face and down her throat. Coughing and sputtering, Viola struggled back to the surface and for a fleeting moment the thought flashed through her head: _This is the end._ But her mind rebelled against the very idea, and so she began to fight again, fight the wind and waves, and her heavy clothing dragging her beneath the sea, knowing she could never win, but not being able to bear the idea of giving up so soon...

Hours later, their rescue had come. Her memories were a blur... but she had been seized by the ruff of her dress like an aberrant puppy and hauled aboard a ship's boat, and from there, rowed to the vessel that proved their salvation. It was the _Providential _– a fitting name, Viola thought. For not only had her life been saved, but she was told that she was the only survivor fished from the wreckage. No others were found. Lord Wessex... She was free.

Viola took a deep breath and straightened, looking about her at the scummy streets and bedraggled children that ran to and fro in them. She had not come this far to give up now. Having seen Will had given her the strenght of resolve that she needed to press forward. His love was steadfast. She knew that their cause was a lost one – like Romeo and Juliet, but she was no coward. Mustering up her courage, Viola held her head high, sallied across the street, dodging a rotten cart an unshaven man shoved into her path, followed by a slurred, ""Watch 'er," and knocked upon the door before her. It was a long while in opening, and Viola took a deep breath and raised her hand, preparing to knock harder this time, praying the flimsy door would not fall in and she would be to blame, when it rattled on it's rickety hinges, and creaked open, revealing a buxom woman in a dirty apron squinting at her from the grime.

"Help 'ye?" she said, looking doubtfully out of her small deep-set eyes at the stranger.

"Well, I certainly hope so," Viola began, and then, remembering to roughen her voice, and doing so with the skill of a born player. ""Ere's to 'opin' ye can."

The deep line between the woman's brows deepened further as she placed her hands on her hips and glared at the stranger.

"Now, see 'ere, young skirt. Do I 'pear to be the sort that takes in –"

"I see you're a –" Viola fumbled, glancing upwards at the swinging sign above her, "-laundry woman. You take in washin'?"

"Take washin'. I don't take strangers."

"I take it that you don't." Viola bit her tongue and resisted further witticisms as she haggled her desperate bargain. "It seems to be more'n you can 'andle on your own," she said, peering inside, and hoping the heaps she imagined were dirty laundry were actually that, and not something else of which she would rather not know. "I come to offer me services. I han't done it much before, but I learn quick."

"Do ye?" The woman looked incredulous. "How much ye askin'?"

"Board and whatever food you can spare. 'T'sall. I make do."

"You'll 'ave to," the woman said, and beckoned Viola inside. "What do they call ye?"

After a quick moment, Viola blurted out, "Julia." It would be easy to answer to, since it was so similar to Juliet, a part that she felt was nearly one and the same with her own now.

"Julia what?" The woman grunted as she heaved a basket of wet washing to her sturdy hip and strode out the back door of the establishment into a tiny filthy courtyard criss-crossed with drying lines.

Viola picked her way around the sodden piles of stinking clothes that had yet to be dunked in the tea-colored water that stood in barrels by the door, and replied "Just Julia."

"Alright, then, Just Julia. Ther'ell be no secrets from me, 'hear? Whatever ye've done, it can't be so bad that we'll send ye away. Alsatia's full of the like. Why else'd we be here. Lend a hand, girl!" she snapped, and Viola jumped to her aid in hoisting a dripping set of sheets across the line.

"Where are the pins?" Viola said, looking about her, recalling the days when Maria would hang out the fresh linens and towels to dry in the fitful breezes of their garden. The woman gave her a funny look.

"No pins. They get stole too easy, and cost too much. Ef it falls down, shake it, and pit it back up. Still cleaner'n when it came to me." She laughed a raucous laugh, and linked her arm through Viola's, who gave a start, but allowed herself to be ushered inside.

"Call me Martha. 'Just Martha'," she mimicked. Viola smiled. "I'll tell ye I live in Alsatia because me first husband didn't do right by me, so I got 'im real drunk and then took 'im out with a barrel stave. Didn't mean to actually kill 'im, 'ee just didn't get up again."

Viola stared. "Wh-what about the second?"

"He left me years ago when I tried to do the same by 'im. But that was only 'cause he was rottener than the first. You see," she grinned. "Can't be worth keepin' from me." Viola gulped. But Martha pressed on. "So what'd you do?"

"I fell in love," Viola whispered. Martha stared. "That's it?" And she burst into a peal of laughter even more boisterous than the first – she seemed to find this genuinely funny. Viola took a deep breath, and, remembering her accent, finished,

"I'm in a bad way, 'cause 'ee's married, and I can't tell 'im."

Martha wiped her eyes. "Tell 'im what?"

"That I'm pregnant."

Martha shook her head. "Ain't the first." Viola felt resentment rising in her chest at the common view Martha took of the case. Not for a moment did she regret Will, did she regret their relationship, those beautiful nights in each other's arms, living their dreams, rehearsing their parts, speaking in poetry, and hiding, constantly hiding everything, first that she was a girl, then that they were lovers... Not for a moment did she regret their relationship, and anything and everything it entailed, including these consequences. She hated to think of this as a consequence. From the time that she knew, she resisted the urge to feel like every other woman who was irresponsible and paid the price. Their relationship had been a beautiful thing, and thanks to this, it would continue to be. That was how she wished to think of it: a continuation of her relationship with Will, even if he never knew. He could not know. A family and the ensuing responsibilities had tethered him to work he hated in Stratford-upon-Avon, and in the end he professed hatred for them and broke free to go away and write. That was the last thing Viola wished to be to him – an expense, a responsibility, a cage, a muzzle to his gift. And so he must never know. She would work, and live, and never stop loving Will, or his child.

Martha watched the young woman's face for a long moment from the shadows as she sorted her thoughts into words. She spoke slowly.

"I'm grateful to ye for lettin' me on 'ere, but I'd like to not be known. There's those who'd wish to do me – us – 'arm if they knew of us." Martha's eyebrows lifted.

"A fugitive, then."

Viola nodded. "And most grateful to ye for your silence."

Martha squinted wisely. "That's one thing Alsatia knows how to do well. We don't let our secrets see the light side of London, that's for sure."

That night, Viola curled up on the rough mattress that Martha threw down upon the hard-packed floor for the both of them, trying to stay as far away from Martha's broad back as she could without falling off into the dirt. The night was cold, and she began to shiver, at first just small tremors that skittered down her slim frame, but soon great wracking quakes that made her head and body ache and threatened to wake up her bed mate. She grasped the edge of the gritty quilt and tugged it closer up around her shoulders, and curled into a tighter ball, twining her shaking fingers together at her warm center. Martha stirred and moved ever so slightly, mumbling,

"Keep together, and keep warm,"

"Aye," Viola managed, and gingerly leaned into Martha's warm back.

"That's right, girl." Gradually, Viola's shaking subsided, and as Martha's gentle snores filled the hovel Viola forced her eyes to close, and tried to recall everything she had ever heard about laundry.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

It was the sort of morning that gilds the tree tops, pinks the skies, and touches all else with a sort of hazy splendor as the sun ascends to it's place, lingers there for too short at time, and descends again in tinges of auburn, ochre and puce. It's ubiquitous rays poked their slender fingers through the fine lace curtains and glanced off the polished wooden floor of the Hensleigh Manor, situated on the outskirts of London proper, and chased each other silently up the wide staircase, slipping in underneath the door of the chamber at the end of the hall, and playing skillfully across the face of a still-slumbering young man.

Brushing at them as if they were pesky flies, he sat up, and looked about him. He had fallen asleep at his desk... again. Papers were strewn about the well-furnished room, and ink spotted the edge of his lightly starched cuff. He flicked at it with his fingers to no avail, and finally set after it with his moist tongue, grimacing at the taste, and working it back and forth in his mouth to try and remove the stain before his mother caught sight of it.

His mother! He suddenly remembered and launched to his feet, overturning the chair behind him, and beginning to hastily gather together his final copy – a four page sonnet. He finally located it among the debris of manuscripts, quills, and penknives, and hurriedly setting his chair to rights and taking a inventory of his appearance before the mirror, pushed his thick brown hair back out of his face, and burst forth from his room.

"Mother!" he called, descending the stairs, and arriving in the atrium in a whirl. "Mother! I'm awake!"

"And so am I now, thanks to you." At her voice, the young man turned, and saw his mother enter the room. She was tall and slender, and had long golden hair that was still down about her shoulders in their quiet morning together. It was the two alone in the huge Hensleigh Manor, and except for a single butler, there were no servants whatsoever for what was professed to be the last of the long line of nearly-extinct Hensleighs.

"Did I really wake you up," the boy enquired, hurriedly embracing her, and then answering himself. "I didn't think so. I went to sleep at my desk again! I don't know if anyone else in the world does the strange things that I do."

His mother merely smiled, as a queer look passed across her face. Her son continued to describe his work in glowing animation, and at last finished,

"I wrote a sonnet."

Lady Hensleigh's face grew still. "A sonnet?'

"Yes, what else do you think I was doing at my desk all week?"

"You've begun to write..." Her voice was strange.

"Yes – I suddenly can't bear to think of doing anything else. I never realized before how much I like it – how much I need it. Words are crashing around in my head all the time, and then they will just bump together, and before I know it, I simply must have paper to write it down, or I think I won't be able to contain it any longer. Either that or I have feelings that are just much better on paper. I think on paper. I wish I could _live _on paper..."

"Any particular inspiration that made you suddenly turn... poet?" Lady Hensleigh asked her son.

"Mother!" His face looked offended, but Lady Hensleigh could see in his light brown eyes that she had hit the mark.

"Liam, it's not that I don't like this, it's just that I think –"

"Oh, Mother, if you could see her, you would know why I feel this way! Or maybe you wouldn't. Let me read this to you; don't you want to hear it? I want to know if you think it's good enough to give to her."

_Her_. Lady Hensleigh knew this day would come, but it had been so long in coming that she had deluded herself into thinking that perhaps she and Liam would live happily their whole lives together, just the two of them, without any _hers_ or _shes_ invading their close-knit relationship.

"Who is _she_?" she asked. Liam sighed, and ran his hand over his face.

"Shall I tell you later? I want you to hear this. Sit -" he ushered her into a seat against the wall, and pulled up a chair opposite. Suddenly, he grew nervous.

"I – I've never written a poem – a sonnet... anything before," Liam said, twisting his fingers together, and looking at his lap. "Will you tell me, honestly, if it is any good?"

"Of course it will be good," Lady Hensleigh said to her son.

"But you're my mother, you think everything I do is good."

"I also am a great admirer of poetry."

He looked up quickly. "You are? Why did you never tell me? You have always seemed to avoid it."

"To make you avoid it, more truthfully," his mother admitted. "It's not writing or poetry that's bad, I just don't want you reading plays and going to play-houses."

Liam sighed. "If you ever change your mind, let me know. I've never wanted anything so much as to see a play. Just _once..._" His mother was shaking her head vehemently. "I have never ever been –"

"Then you have been listening to your mother, like a wise son. Why don't you begin your poem."

Liam nodded, and then there was a long pause as he perused his pages covered in tiny lacy writing – familiar writing, Lady Hensleigh noted with a shock – and at last began to speak. He stammered his way through the first few lines, but as he turned onto the second page, and then the third, the unmistakeable passion that resided in the pages filled him and proceeded from his mouth like fire, water and thunder, only to give way to words as light as dew-drops and breath that smelt of flowers, animating his whole figure, and glorifying him in the way an audience sees a player glorified as they give the final triumphant speech three pages from the end of the play.

Lady Hensleigh was transfixed. If she did not know her son and trust him so implicitly, she wouldn't have been able to believe he had written this himself, so like the early efforts of other famous playwrights did this sound. The use of words, even the invention of new words, or combinations of words like _loving-jealous_ and _tender-cold_ were so familiar to her that she had a difficult time composing herself, good player though she was, to look upon her son's face as he finished the sonnet and looked up.

"Well... is it any good?" His mother's face should have been answer enough, but it was enigmatic, holding a look he had never seen before. She took in her breath and at last said in a shaking voice,

"It is very good." It was a simple sentence, but the way she said it made it worth the world to Liam. He threw his arms about her and exclaimed,

"Do you really think so? I am very happy with it!"

Lady Hensleigh laughed a nervous laugh, and extricated herself from her son's embrace. She put a hand on the side of his face, and his brown eyes met hers, making her heart beat quicker, as they had on so many occasions before.

"Now tell me about she for whom it was written." A far-off look came into his eyes, and he took her hand into his lap, toying with it as he spoke.

"She is to me like the sun is to the flowers, like the wind to the trees, like the water is to a thirty soul long a-search for a treasure he knows not of..."

"Her name?"

"Daphne. Isn't that the most beautiful name you've ever heard? It sings to me of Greek lovers, enchanted gardens, and burning sunshine, of cool grasses, and desperate measures." Then he broke into a laugh. "You see? I have turned poet on you!"

"And it is wonderful to behold. But you haven't told me any real details – how you met, where she lives, what sort of girl is she –"

"The best sort!" Liam exclaimed. "Mother, if I didn't know better, I would think she were the very best of her kind in all of England."

"And what makes you know better?" Lady Hensleigh quirked her mouth sideways and Liam followed suit.

"Knowing you."

"Flatterer."

"It's true."  
"You're a poet, you said so yourself. If to be a player is to be a liar, then to be a poet is to be a flatterer."

Liam looked intrigued. "That was beautifully put. You never told me how you came to know so much about such things. I don't know many women who –"

"Exactly, you don't know many women."

Liam rolled his eyes. "Daphne is a lady-in-waiting to Her Majesty when she stays at Whitehall. She is young and beautiful, and as pure and fresh as a flower freshly sprouting, not yet fully unfolding it's blossoms, and I think she really might like me too."

"Might?"

"This sonnet should hopefully help." His eyes were bright, and Lady Hensleigh stood, pulling her son to his feet, and kissing him on the cheek.

"Go then. As I am a woman, believe me when I say no young heart could resist such a sonnet as that."

Beaming his thanks, Liam ran from the room, and momentarily Lady Hensleigh could hear the door to the street slam behind him, and the merry singing that followed him down the road toward Whitehall. Knowing it would do no use to ask him why and how he managed to find himself there, Lady Hensleigh looked about her at her grand, quiet house, and marveled at the strange turns life takes.

~I would really appreciate hearing your reviews/critique/ideas for future chapters! God bless!~


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Far away from the bustling city of London with it's hurried ways, it's raucous cries, and it's varied individuals, sprawled the tiny market town of Stratford-upon-Avon, whose inhabitants never rushed, were peacefully quiet, and predisposed to the same patterns of life year after year. It perhaps was this same sluggish quietude and monotony that had irked a young Will Shakespeare into making a break for it and ending up in London, a meager penny-a-line rogue poet a decade ago, leaving behind nothing but a forsaken name _Skagsbeard_, a shadow of the living he once had working in leather – and a family...

Anne Hathaway leaned closer to her work, and peered at the even rows of thread gradually closing the gash in the sturdy pair of trousers she held upon her lap. The setting sun reached it's rays in through the single open window of the house and glinted upon her dark glossy hair, bundled out of her way in a thick loose braid down her back, and cast her features into a shadow. In a shadow. That is how Anne had lived most of her early life... and likely the way she would die. But once, years ago, the light had shone full upon her face, illumining it, and pouring forth upon it's beauty, inspiring and quickening the heart of a certain young man.

Young Will had been the sort of fellow the villagers in Stratford either told their children to stay away from, or he was completely ignored, by turns. On the days when he would saunter forth from his father's glove shop and march down the street, an unreadable expression on his face, his thick hair mussed and his jaw set, mothers would snatch their children out of harm's way, and old folks would turn to each other and mutter,

"There goes that Will, up to no good, for sure. See that face? No one will ever understand that fellow, 'specially not 'is father."

"Now, Gerald, do you hear me? Stay out of the young master's way. I don't want you loiterin' about the likes of 'im," mothers would scold, and Will's back would disappear around the corner of the shop in the square.

Either that, or first thing on a Sunday morning, the odd recesses of the town, overturned milk pails, shady patches of wildflowers in the meadow, or perched upon a rough rail fence the dreamer would sit, in silence or in song, but always with a pensive beauty about him, and a sheaf of rough scraps of paper clenched in his hand.

Passersby would shake their heads. "He's no earthly good, sittin' there like that, saying flatterous poppycock, or scribbling on those infernal papers," they would say. "If we ignore 'im, maybe 'e'll come off it someday."

And so Will lived his life, and Anne lived hers, alternately avoiding or ignoring the young aspiring poet, tacitly agreeing with the town of Stratford that he was either a troublemaker looking for a way out of work, or a senile fool thinking he could be a writer. Until one day. It was early in the spring, and to Anne, spring meant an awful amount of work for those milking Hathaway cows. She was on her way back through the wide meadow, a pail in each round strong arm, and did not notice the figure sprawled in the tall grasses until she nearly stepped on him.

"Oh!" she cried out, nearly upsetting one of her pails as he leapt to his feet.

"I'm sorry!" he exclaimed. "I was lying in your meadow –"

"I noticed," Anne said, setting both pails down in the grass and putting a hand up to stop her racing heart.

"I suppose I should have asked. Is it alright if –"

"There's no sense goin' on polite about it," Anne said, taking a deep breath, and stooping to resume her burden. "Stay where you are if you want to get trampled."

Will looked as if he was going to scowl at that, but suddenly a light breeze skipped through the field, rumpling Anne's plain skirt against her legs, and sending wisps of dark waving hair teasing about her face. He stood transfixed, a small smile upon his lips. Anne stared at him.

"What's wrong?"

"N-nothing," Will stammered, collecting himself, and reaching into his shirt, producing the everlasting... papers. Pulling a small stick of charcoal from behind his ear where until then it had remained hidden in his unruly hair, he knelt on one knee, Anne watching him all the while, and, placing the papers on the other, proceeded to scrawl a few lines.

"Perhaps in the old age black was not counted as fair, but to me, your eyes shine as ravens, and – read here..." he said rapturously, thrusting the pages at her. "You looked the very picture of – what?"

Anne was gazing blankly at him. "I cannot read." Will took a slow breath, and then said,

"Of course. But what a pity. You have no idea how beautiful that was."

"What was?"

"The wind, just now, playing through your hair, and making you appear like some dark-headed angel from on high, descended to earth just to plague me..."

Anne was a smart girl. She knew that dreamers starved in this way of life. And he was much younger than she was; she had always assumed that she would never marry, but work for her father until she could work no more. All her life Anne had been praised for her strenghth and skill, and hard work. But never for her beauty... She permitted the lad a smile.

"You are a flatterer, and you know it. But it is beautiful."

Will's face was positively glorified. "If you could only know the beauty of a well-turned word –"

"But I cannot. I cannot read. It would do me no good."

"Oh, there, you are wrong. It would do you a world of good, a heart of good." He drew closer, and his lips spoke close to her ear. "I could teach you to read."

Anne considered. "I don't know if my father will let me."

"I will come back – tonight. Meet me beneath your window, and I will show you a place – I'm writing a sonnet for you to practice," and with that he vanished, leaping like a deer away across the meadow, his pages clutched tightly in his hand.

And he did return. That night, and every night after that, until Anne gradually let down her guard, let down her preconceptions about writers, and her preconceptions about love. She fell in love with Will Shakespeare. Nights in the barn, and nights upon the meadows turned into bliss the down-to-earth Anne never knew she longed for until she was experiencing the fullness of the young dreamer's passionate love. And with her father's sudden death, she found in Will something to cling to, something she thought would never change.

Then it happened. She told Will, and he told her to keep it a secret. He would get permission to marry her as soon as possible. After that night, everything changed. Something snapped within Will, but he would not give it voice, and Anne was not keen enough to pick up on it. When she was three months gone with child they were married in the Stratford church, and began their life together in the cottage Anne inherited.

The babe was born healthy and active, and took all of Anne's time and thought to tend to. Will would write. When the twins were born, the house became even noisier, and even more work to keep up. Anne was a hard worker, but Will had never accustomed himself to responsibilities. And it was too distracting with all the children inside to try and write. He was outside much of the time. Their meager life became meagerer with more mouths to feed, until one night, after a tempestuous discussion, Will agreed to go. Just to see how things fared, to try his luck in London, and send them whatever he earned.

Anne's reading lessons had not come to naught. An occasional letter, and money soon became all that she had of Will Shakespeare. And it did not matter so much to her, for the Will Shakespeare that she had fallen in love with had not come to her for a long while.

Please review? I have not received any feedback at all on this :-( and I really would appreciate some critique, suggestions, or new ideas. We are about to return to the Hensleighs, I just wanted to give a quick bit on life back in Stratford. Things are about to get really tense... I'd love to hear from you!


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

The previous day, Liam had been passing by his favorite spot along the river Thames, just outside the grounds of the palace at Whitehall, and looking in. He was interested by seeing a great crowd of people upon the garden turf, engaged in playing various lawn games, and standing about and generally looking picturesque. He often came here to amuse and delight his sense of the romantic by watching the well-dressed beautiful men and women pose and preen, foign and flirt.

Almost without knowing what he did, he skirted the park, and found himself before the gates of Whitehall, looking inward, and being analyzed by a single guardsman, and several young courtiers who were supposed to be admiring a creeping fern upon the walk, but were finding every opportunity of dropping handkerchiefs, asking stupid questions, and feeling faint to get the attention of the mustached guardsman. Liam must have tread upon a twig at that moment, for of one accord, they looked up to see a handsome, simple, decently-dressed young man gazing at them, almost unconscious of his behavior or his whereabouts. They tittered, and began to hover about him, peppering him with questions and compliments, and making him feel altogether heady and his blood rush to places he wished it didn't. Not one member of the group distinguished herself in his mind, they were all fairies of the outdoors, all beauty, mischief, and enchantment, and not individual souls.

But presently his eyes were arrested by a figure approaching, clad in a fine white frock that perfectly fit her slight frame and trailed along the leaf-strewn grass behind her. Her hair was long and waving, like his mothers, but the richest of browns, and strands of pearls were twined about her head, catching the sun's glow as she walked. Her face was young and flawless, but unmistakeably grave, and as she approached the group, she called out,

"Her majesty summons us as at once."

With giggles and a flurry of silks, the multicolored fairies flitted away over the grounds, Liam in their midst, being teased about what a scandal it was for him to be here, and so on, but his eyes were fixed upon the white-clad young girl, and when she glanced back over her shoulder and her deep blue eyes met his, his heart nearly leapt from his chest.

Before he fully realized what was happening, Liam found himself on the other side of the grounds, among a beauteous and intelligent-seeming crowd of people settling themselves on wooden benches around a central dais. He caught sight of the queen upon her splendid seat, and hurriedly scuttling to a vacant spot on the benches arranged on the green, Liam seated himself and directed his attention forward, where some sort of pageantry was beginning to be enacted upon the dais. He looked about him to catch a glance as to where the young girl had gone, and did not catch sight of her again, but was presently caught up in the drama of a play being performed for Her Majesty's especial enjoyment, an old one she had requested performed again. It was the tale of a young woman shipwrecked upon a far coast, and forced to unprecedented measures to gain safety and employment, and gaining instead jealously, love, and a bevy of other troubles. It was a play filled with beautiful speeches which lifted the soul and set the heart aflutter with emotion, comedy, which set the audience into fits of laughter and shouted jibes, and best of all, love, which pulsed, and throbbed and ran all the wrong directions before finally getting set to rights at the denouement. Liam was entranced. It was the first play he had ever seen, quite on accident, and he was filled with joy, sorrow, longing, and ideas all at once.

The court of the queen rose and began to mill about the garden as soon as the players made their bows and exited and the liveried servants began to disassemble the stage; Liam was caught in the swirl of silks, brocades, and taffeta, but did not mind at all, his mind every bit awhirl with what he had seen and heard. And in the midst of all this mental and emotional enlightenment, he caught sight of the object of his affections, walking near the end of Her Majesty's retinue as she returned inside.

Pushing and wriggling his way through the crowd, Liam slipped inside the palace just behind them, and waiting, breathless behind a pillar until their footsteps faded.

"Oh, what a fool I am," he mouthed to himself, and then hurried through the grand palace at Whitehall on the trail of the Queen's handmaidens. They passed through several sweeping corridors and a grand hall with a soaring ceiling before disappearing through a wide set of double doors. Liam caught sight of a few of the servants – the white-clad girl included- entering through a smaller door near the end of the corridor, into what he supposed was a dressing room or a closet of some kind. Leaning against a smooth pillar, and allowing his legs to slip from underneath him, Liam held his breath and prayed for the right moment to accost the door.

It came but a moment after he realized his speech of love that raced already within his fevered brain would be worth naught had he no breath to utter it; the door opened, and – gracious Heaven! – who should slip out, bearing in her arms a stack of folded linens, but she! Liam stood to his feet, and stepped into view, clearing his throat softly.

The girl, hearing the sound and suddenly looking up to see him gave a gasp and dropped the starched linens stacked upon her arms.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" she breathed, blushing, and then kneeling to gather up her avalanched responsibilities.

"Oh – I'm so sorry, did I frighten you?" murmured Liam, dropping to the floor as well and hurriedly beginning to hand her the rose-scented sheets, the smell going to his head, and making his speech rush on.

"I did not mean to frighten you, it's just, I saw you in the gardens, and – well... I had to speak to you, and so I –"

"You will be severely punished if they find you here," she said, giving his face a quick glance, hardly daring to look before. He was a handsome lad, and she was worried that her emotions would get the better of her and she would disgrace herself upon first meeting just by looking into his brown eyes full of admiration and longing.

"Let them," he said, smiling. "It would be worth it. I am awfully sorry to have made you drop these... these..."

"They are Her Majesty's," the girl said, pressing her lips together. "They will have to be washed again."

Liam's face grew a shade paler. "That is my fault."

"You shouldn't be here. What do you want?" It came out harsher than she intended.

"I- I would like to see you again."

The girl blushed, and looked at the ground. "I have responsibilities here. Ladies-in-waiting are not permitted male admirers – "

"But they have them, nonetheless," Liam hazarded. She looked up quickly. Just then a voice was heard calling from within the door behind them,

"Daphne! Daphne!"

"I must go," she said, turning away, and starting when, with a swift move, he caught her hand and pressed it to his lips as he had seen a player do mere minutes earlier.

"Daphne," he whispered. She reclaimed her hand, murmuring that if he wasn't careful he would make her drop the linens again. And then she was gone, leaving Liam to catch his breath, breathe the lingering scent of rose water, and think quickly of how to get back home in one piece.

~Reviews, please? I write for my own amusement, but I do love to hear feedback from my readers, and I still have heard nothing :-( Is it any good? Worth continuing? Ideas for future chapters? Guesses as to what will happen? What should happen?

AUTHOR's NOTE- DUE TO LOW INTEREST RIGHT NOW, this story has been put on hold . If you really want an update, let me know! MEANWHILE, check out my new Avenders fiction called The Avengers Plus Some. God bless! -The Author


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Author's Note: Alright, ChrisVille and Penmora Zenith, you have inspired me! Here is some more just for you two, and anyone else who eventually reads this :-) Thank you for your interest! Let me know what you think/ what should happen next.

Liam was in ecstasy. He rushed blindly thorough the streets of London, having successfully escaped the labyrinth of Whitehall's corridors and passages back into the gardens, and when he arrived home, went straight up to his room, ignoring the setting sun, and scribbling by candlelight long into the night...

And now it was finished – his mother approved, and now he began to feel faint wondering if Daphne would approve. His courage failing him, Liam suddenly had a better idea. He quickly penned a note to Daphne:

"To the one whose beauty holds my heart in thrall and whose face is ever before my eye ~

I am such a fool that since I have met you I have been able to do little but dream on our next meeting. Think me not presumptuous, but I have written for you a token of my regard. However, though my pen proclaims me a lion in love, my heart beats with the faltering rhythm of a rabbit, and I know not when we shall meet again, or if this sonnet I wrote, being in the middle of the night, is but a dream, and will vanish with nothing to proclaim its once sweet presence with but a small puff of dust and the scent of violets. To temper my love, and to prove that this indeed is worthy of such a prize as you, I intend to quite secretly publish this work, and present it one day as your worthy due, for being the queen of my affections, and the muse which inspires my work. Lowly paper and scribbling is not for one such as you. Forgive this foolishness, for you will one day see it justified if I can work my will and if there is any who understands love in this world.

Your justified fool,

Liam Hensleigh."

He hadn't the faintest idea what he was about, and as such couldn't very well tell his mother, but in answer to her inquiries, he called, "I'm going out! I will be back when I am famous!"

Lady Hensleigh shook her head at his bravado as she heard the door slam.

Liam focused his eyes above the heads of the crowds hurrying along the busy London street and on a swinging sign that bore an etching of a printing press – a building at which he had rarely glanced before, but which now held such promise. His progress seemed painfully slow as he waited for not one, but two carts to pass, and then beckoned a woman with several small children on ahead of him before crossing the street and gaining the threshold of the establishment. It was certainly not the most impressive structure, but it had a clean wood floor, and a freshly-painted sign upon the door that read,

"Enter, Writers of Renown". It was unusual for a sign to display writing to those passing on the streets, as most of the general populous could not read, but Liam was encouraged by the knowledge that this sign was lettered with a select group of people in mind, and he felt a swelling inside to belong to this select group. Hoping that he would one day be a writer of renown, Liam laid his hand upon the door latch, and entered boldly.

At once he was struck with the enormous printing press that took up almost the entirety of the floorspace in the publisher's shop. A man he presumed to the publisher finished lecturing the bevy of shoplads in ink-stained aprons setting type in trays on a long bench, and turned back to his current client, a tall, well-dressed man standing near the window. The man turned upon hearing the new arrival, and caught Liam's eye, not smiling, but rather curving his mouth under his mustache in some other form that was not entirely unpleasant to behold. Liam nodded, and couldn't help but notice the man stared at him a little longer that would be considered good breeding, and anxious to prove his own good breeding those within, answered the publisher's polite enquiry with pride.

"Liam Hensleigh, sir. Here to present a piece of writing for publication."

The publisher looked doubtful, but nodded, and replied, "Will be right with you, lad, after I tend to his lordship's business."

The publisher followed His Lordship obsequiously about the place for several minutes, and showed him the progress on a piece of work he was obviously patronizing, if he did not write it himself.

"Very good, I shall hope to hold it in my hands before long," His Lordship said, adjusting his cloak, and making for the door. "Tend to the boy, won't you? Don't mind me." With that, he proceeded to pull a pipe and a jeweled case of tobacco from his waistcoat and begin smoking calmly, leaning in the doorway. Liam flashed a grateful smile, and advanced, his manuscript in hand.

"What have we here," the publisher mused, taking it in hand without even asking to look it over, which Liam found surprising, and being to leaf through it. A few stanzas into the handwritten pages, his face sobered, and he held it closer to the window's light, his eyes skimming the words, his face quickly darkening. Liam watched nervously. At last the man looked up.

"Where did you get this?" he demanded, giving the lad a penetrating look.

"I –" Liam stammered.

"Speak up."

"I – I wrote it, sir."

The man stared at Liam, and then back at the manuscript, his face growing a shade darker with anger. Then he flung the pages toward the boy, and shouted,

"Get out of here, thief!"

Liam jumped back in shock, and then dropped to his knees beginning to frantically gather his precious pages together. "I don't know what you're talking about, I'm not a thief, sir!"

"You couldn't have written this! I've seen enough of your kind, hawking someone else's writings for money. Get out! Unless you want to confess who really wrote it!"

"I did!" Liam exclaimed, looking up, his eyes blazing. "Every word of it is mine!"

"And the handwriting?" the publisher sneered. "It is yours as well?"

"It certainly is," vowed Liam.

"William Shakespeare's own hand-writing, even! And he claims that too! The gall! Lord Wessex!" The publisher appealed to higher authority. "Care to have a look at this well-crafted thievery?"  
"It is not thievery!" Liam vociferated, his throat beginning to grown tight, and his eyes to sting.

"I wrote it!"

"No need to shout, boy." He looked up to see Lord Wessex stoop and hand the last page to him.

"I'd like to have a look, if you don't mind."

Liam fought back tears. "I don't understand. I never wrote anything before -" The publisher threw up his hands as the story grew more fantastic " – and my mother told me when I started to write that it was good, and I should see if anyone would publish it! I don't understand what you are talking about at all."

"Famous playwrights' work is forged all the time. He merely thinks you are one of that crowd."

"Famous playwrights? I don't know any playwrights, let alone famous ones. If I did I should worship them, not steal their work. Unless you call inspiration stealing."

Wessex listened raptly to the boy, and began to finger his mustache. Liam got to his feet, his face flushed, and his chest rising and falling rapidly in suppressed humiliation. He threw up his head.

"If you think I am stealing someone else's work, then I must tell you you are falsely, and most basely deceived," he said, with as much a player's air as he could muster. "Every word of this comes from my own head, and my own heart. And I am most insulted that you insinuate otherwise."

"Insinuate!" the publisher exploded. "My lord, look at it!"

Lord Wessex calmly took the manuscript from Liam's trembling hands. He gave a clutch at it, but an even look from the unreadable brown eyes of Wessex convinced him to let it go. However, he did not take his eyes off the well-dressed figure who quickly perused his work. At last, he said,

"I am not an expert in handwriting, or poetry, even." The publisher opened his mouth to protest, but Wessex held up a slender hand, continuing, "-But even so." He turned and gave the lad a sympathetic look. "It smells strongly of Will Shakespeare's style. At the very least it has been imitated to near perfection."

"Imitated!" raged the publisher. "The very writing is his! If I had a quarto of his on hand, I could prove it! I should send for the man himself and confront him with this base calumny."  
"Don't." Wessex was firm. Liam pleaded,

"Please, I don't even know who Will Shakespeare is! How could I copy his work?" The publisher would have broke into a screech of laughter, but Wessex stopped him. He stared at the young man.

"You have never heard of Will Shakespeare? You cannot be serious."

Liam met his eyes steadily. "I have never heard the name in my life before sir, and I never lie." He glared at the publisher. "Who is he?"

"Where have you been the past thirty years?"

"Well, I've only been for seventeen," Liam confessed. "I told you, I am a Hensleigh. I live in the old family manor with my mother. We are the last of that noble family, and... we don't get out much, I suppose." He shrugged. "I am not allowed to go to play houses."

Wessex was taking in his every word, glance, and gesture, and at last looked up at the publisher.

"There has to be some way to prove he is speaking the truth."  
"But, my lord –"

"May I come and visit, sometime? I am very much intrigued by you, young man."

"You believe me?"

"I am inclined to. And if it is the truth, you are a very remarkable boy. I have heard of the last of the Hensleigh family living out their days in the fine Hensleigh Manor, but while I heard rumors of a very quiet widow and her son, I had no idea the son was this young. What is your history?"

"We don't speak of it much," Liam admitted. "Rather, Mother doesn't. She does not ever go out, but we entertain sometimes, just small groups. She says we are the last of the family, a distant branch."

"Remarkable. All of the Hensleighs have been extinct for decades. I had no idea the manor was back in the possession of some descendents. Publisher -" Wessex gestured. "I want this put to press right away."

"My lord!" The publisher stared. "But the piece you commissioned – "

"I now commission this. I will pay any additional publication costs incurred, and I want the first printed quarto by the end of the month."

"Have you thought of asking Will Shakespeare's permission?" muttered the publisher, snatching the manuscript from Wessex with a dark look.

"I never ask a players' permission for anything," Wessex murmuerd in return, and putting an arm around Liam's shoulder, ushered him from the print shop.


End file.
